Maybe one night when we collapse onto your bed at four in the morning, we can listen to heartbeats and laughter instead of laying there in silence until one of us is ready to open up. I understand that it takes time to tell our stories but I find myself excited to hear yours and vulnerable enough to want to share mine. I want to talk about your hands and your eyes when you undress me, the sound that slips your mouth when our skin collides, and the way your fingers slip between the spaces I try to hide. I think we should open the boxes we hide beneath the bed and the letters never sent. Tell me about that one time your mother had to leave the light on after a nightmare because I may need to you keep the candle burning at night. And for all those old photographs standing on your bookshelf - I want to know the time and place behind them all, especially the black and white one that made your eyes a little empty when I asked who it was. I want to talk about what it was that ate you up and spit you out for you are tough, but anyone can easily make a heart as soft as yours break if they really wanted to. Your hands may be rough but your soul is fragile, and so, I want to listen to it talk about the fairy tale endings that somehow do exist in your mind and how some day, you will find one. Maybe the next time we collapse onto your bed at four in the morning, we will be trying to shut one another up so we would actually be able to fall asleep.